Shroud of Lies: Elegy
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: A late-night phone call leads AD Skinner to fulfill a last request.


Title: Shroud of Lies: Elegy  
Author: N. Y. Smith  
E-Mail Address: [minismith@aol.com][1]  
Home page: [http://members.aol.com/minismith/write/][2]   
Date: July 8, 1998  
Rating: PG-13: Some coarse language, mildly disturbing themes  
Category: SRA Alternate   
universeSpoilers: None, reallyKeywords: Mulder/Scully UST, Mulder/Scully/Skinner Friendship,Character death, Alternate Universe  
Summary: An early morning phone call forces AD Skinner toperform a dreaded but inevitable service for a colleague.  
Disclaimer: Story copyright reserved by the author. (Who elsewould want it?) Most of the characters contained herein (e.g.,Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Modell) are the property of Fox, Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, et al, who retain the rights tothose characters.Archiving: Gossamer okay; all others please ask permission.Author Notes: This is one of a series of sketches that will flesh outthe events leading up to my story "Between Lies." Feedback isgreatly appreciated.  
  
  
Shroud of Lies: Elegy

* * *

The phone rang, blessedly interrupting another nightmare. Walter Skinner shook his head and thanked whatever lucky starsmade the phone ring just before 

Phone, he realized and growled groggily into the handset.

"Sir?" a voice from another nightmare inquired.

"What, Mulder?" He glanced at the clock. "It's 4 in themorning, Mulder "

"I know, S-s-sir. I'm s-s-sorry, b-b-but I n-n-need to go b-b-back," Mulder stuttered.

Mulder stuttered. Damn. "I'll be there in about," Skinnercalculated as he rubbed his eyes, "30 minutes." Damn, he thoughtas he hurriedly dressed and bounded out the door.

Skinner found Mulder on Maggie Scully's doorstep, backlit bythe porch light. "Thank you," he struggled with the "th" soundbefore the car door shut with a thud.

"Does Scully know where you are?" Skinner immediatelyflushed over having treated this 37-year-old like he was a 10-year-old sneaking out of the house.

"I left a n-n-note," he hung his head in embarrassment overneeding to be treated like a 10-year-old sneaking out of the house.

Skinner began to protest, but Mulder held up a tremblinghand.

"P-P-Please hurry," he pleaded, tears rolling from the sunkeneyes across the hollow cheeks. "P-P-Please," he breathed and layhis head on the head rest.

The car's engine roared in reply. Mulder's head began to boblike a boxer avoiding the "jab" of the headlights from the oncomingearly rush hour traffic. He tried to cover his face but his handsbegan to shake rather than tremble. His head lolled back, hishands fell to the seat, his back arched.

"Not now, Mulder. Hold on a little more." Shit. Skinnerveered from the center to the emergency lane, nearly taking a vanwith him. Gravel crunched under his boots and he nearly hurdledthe hood before yanking open the passenger door. He didn't haveto look at Mulder's eyes to recognize the full-blown tonic-clonicseizure. With one hand he contained Mulder's head and reclinedthe seat with the other. Gravel crunched behind him and bluelights flashed in the darkness. Great. "Hold on, Mulder. You'regonna be okay."

"Is there a problem, sir?" The voice belonged to a MarylandState Police officer whose right hand rested on his weapon.

Skinner reached gingerly for his identification but when hisweapon showed he found himself facing a .40 caliber Berretta.

"Put your hands where I can see them and step away from thecar, sir!" the officer commanded. His partner took a flankingposition with gun similarly drawn.

Skinner threw both hands into the air and moved away fromthe car. "I'm FBI!" he shouted calmly. "My name is WalterSkinner and I'm an assistant director for the FBI!"

The original officer replied with a "Yeah, sure" look.

Skinner knew he had to take control. "I'm on my way to thehospital with an agent who's ill and I don't have time to screw withyou," he reprimanded. "I'm gonna remove my ID with my lefthand-" He moved slowly and cautiously, avoiding all appearanceof going for his Sig Sauer. He let his wallet fall open and his badgeglittered in the headlights. The original officer peered at the ID anddropped his weapon when he was satisfied.

His partner peeked into the window at Mulder. "You sureyou don't need an ambulance, sir?"

"No," Skinner replied anxiously, then added, "Thanks." 

Mulder's arm flailed against the door facing. Skinner grabbedit and found himself shocked at the lack of substance. The skin feltlike brittle kidskin over a plastic carcass. As the seizures ravagedhis mind, Mulder's frail body rattled more than shuddered. And toSkinner, who'd seen more death than any man should, it was moreappalling than anything he'd seen before. [Please, God, take himnow,] he found himself praying in Russian as his grandmother hadtaught him. [Be merciful to your child, Fox, and gather him intoyour sheltering arms,] he remembered from an old RussianOrthodox prayer for the dying. "Hold on, Mulder. You're gonnabe okay," he soothed in a voice he'd had too little opportunity touse. 

The seizure ebbed, then rose again before Mulder finally laystill. He clawed at Skinner's shirt. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry."

Skinner wiped the tears from the gaunt face before replying,"It's okay, Mulder, it's okay." In that instant he understood whythey called it mercy killing.

Robert Patrick Modell was one of the world's leadingneuropsychiatrists. And he was not accustomed to being draggedout of bed at 5 in the morning. So he looked understandablydisheveled when he strode into Mulder's room. But he lookedimmeasurably disheartened when he exited the room, shaking hishead as he answered Skinner's unspoken question, "Soon."

The phone rang, rousing Dana Scully from a rare happydream Mulder showing Sam how to shoot a basketball. He was,well, Mulder tall, lithe, strong, tender, Mulder. "Mulder, answerthe phone." She rolled out of her dream onto Mulder's emptypillow. Her eyes darted about the room before the phonesummoned again. Dammit, Mulder, you ditched me again.

"Scully?" It was Skinner.

A piece of paper peeked from beneath Mulder's pillow. Sheopened it with trembling hands. DS, he'd scrawled, "It's time. Always remember that I loved you. M." And beneath it he'dprinted, tried to print, one last message for his precious, cherishedson, "I love you, Sam. Daddy."

"Scully?"

"Yeah," she answered huskily.

"Mulder asked me to bring him back to the center "

"I know. I," she snuffled slightly, "found his note."

"Scully "

"I'm on my way." She rummaged through the closet,throwing changes of clothes into a small travel bag. "Please try tomake him wait for me this time," she begged.

"I will. This time I will." Again he put his emotion in thatdark and empty place inside and turned to do this one last servicefor his stricken colleague.   
  
* * * 

  
  


The Daybreak Center looked more like a business campusthan a long-term mental health facility. Scully found her usualparking place and walked slowly to the night entrance. She hadcome to know the Center well in the 3 years since Mulder hadbeen here. He'd sunk into a clinically deep depression after hisfather's death blaming himself even though the coroner's inquesthad exonerated him. Well, it hadn't exactly cleared him; it justhadn't implicated him. Both he and his father tested positive forgunpowder and both of their fingerprints were on the gun found inBill Mulder's hand. The inquest had ruled that Mulder hadprobably tried to prevent his father's suicide. Mulder himself wasof no help, his recollection having stopped when his father hadsummoned him to the Vineyard. Scully knew that much. Thephone had rung in the middle of an argument they were havingabout getting married because she was pregnant with Sam. Hewanted to; she wasn't ready to decide. The phone rang; Mulderran to his father, still the little boy seeking approval. And so beganthe nightmare that was to last 3 years.

She paused at the door and looked around the grounds. Mulder had selected the Center for the reputation of its founder,Modell, and its non-clinical atmosphere. It didn't look or feel likethe loony bin. It was to have been a short stay, but it soon becameapparent that the depression required long-term treatment. Because he had voluntarily committed himself, he could come andgo as he pleased, as long as Modell agreed. And Modell had beensurprisingly accommodating allowing long furloughs whichMulder spent with Scully, then Scully and Sam, returning to theCenter when he needed to. 

And Skinner. He, too, had been surprisinglyaccommodating putting and leaving Mulder on medical leave,arranging insurance and benefits so that Sam receivedcompensation any other injured agent's child would. Mulder hadcome to rely on him when things got bad. Like tonight.

She rang the night bell and, to her surprise, Skinner appearedand swung the door open. "Where is he?"

"In his room." He slowed his pace to match hers. "He had atonic/clonic seizure after I picked him up."

"How is he?"

"He's barely conscious but the seizure has subsided."

She stopped in front of a door his door. A small blue taghung on the door. "What's that?"

Skinner looked at the tile. "It means this has become ahospice room."

Her eyes grew round.

"He won't be getting better, Scully. Not this time."

Angrily she spun and pushed the door open. He lay in a poolof dim light, curled on his side under an afghan her mother hadmade. Once his homey retreat, some of his books and papers hadbeen pushed aside to make room for a battery of machines thatbeeped and drew drunken lines on narrow paper. His eyes wereclosed and he looked as helpless as Sam. Reluctantly she walkedto his bedside and brushed that always-errant lock of hair from hisforehead. "Mulder," she whispered.

His lids lifted for a moment, but the eyes behind them werevacant, unfocused. She knew then that he his essence, hisspirit was already gone, but his body refused to succumb. She hadknown both well. When his health had failed, his spirit becamestronger, refusing to be controlled by his failing mind. On this lastvisit he'd been himself again charming, infuriating, intoxicatingMulder. He'd played basketball with Sam, had teased her mother. And he'd shown her again what it was like to be _with_ him. Hismedications had prevented it for such a long time. They'd fallenasleep safe and sated-- having compressed a lifetime into a fewshort years triumph and tragedy and a son named Sam.

The tears rolled down her face and Skinner did not know whatto do. She was entitled to them; she'd earned them, but he sowanted to wipe them from her face, from her heart.

A soft knock preceded the appearance of bleary-eyed,bearded cleric who stepped into the semi-darkness at the edge ofthe room. The buttons of his black cassock became mismatchedsomewhere below his knee. A wooden Patriarch's cross hungaround his neck. Skinner offered his hand in greeting.

Scully turned and her looks betrayed confusion thenconsternation. She had expected Father McCue and here stoodFather Gregor Prokiovitch. Surely her mother had called FatherMcCue; he was, after all, the family priest and Family. McCuehad never considered Mulder part of the Scully family. He had, infact, refused to baptize Sam because she had never marriedMulder. Father McCue was not coming, she realized. But here,here was the priest who'd moved heaven and earth and anArchbishop to convince them that Sam should be, deserved to be,baptized just like any other child of 2 people who'd committedthemselves to each other regardless of the petty legalities. Herface softened and she extended her hand.

"Walter said that Mr. Mulder was not well. I came to see if Icould be of any comfort," the priest said quietly.

"It's very kind of you to come at such an awful hour."

The cleric smiled. "It was the least I could do for a friend."

"A friend?"

"After Samuel's baptism he and I would have the mostoutrageous arguments about agnosticism and orthodoxy."

"But Mulder would have argued against orthodoxy . . ."

"Of course he did," the priest confirmed, "with his mind. Butin his heart he believed. He was just afraid to admit it. He wasafraid that if he admitted there were a God, he might blame Himfor all of the tragedies he'd suffered in this life." The cleric tookher hand. "And so he chose to sacrifice his soul to avoiddishonoring God."

Scully stared at the open face before her. He knew Mulder;he knew Mulder's soul. And he'd ministered to it. She foundherself asking for one last service to this soul she'd wronglyconsidered lost.

She held his hand as the priest anointed his forehead andintoned in Russian the intercession. Her heart translated what herears could not and in the simple sign of the cross she foundcourage to face the trials ahead.

Unashamedly she joined him in the narrow bed, Skinnerhelping her through the tangle of tubes and wires, until she cradledher friend and her lover eyes burning brightly in defiance of thelooming abyss.   
  
* * * 

  
  


Scully's shoulders slumped as she signed yet another Do NotResuscitate order for Mulder's chart. She handed it back to thenurse, then retreated behind the closed door of his hospital room.

"How long?" Skinner asked for the bottom-line. "It's been 3days."

"His body can't take much more. His intraictal deltas aremaxing out and his interictal deltas are nearing flatline," Modellanswered.

Skinner's mouth tasted foul at the realization that he'dactually understood the doctor's statement. "Can you do anythingfor him?" Skinner asked carefully. Both of them knew what hewas asking.

"He gave up everything to prolong his time with her. Howcan I cheat them out of what precious seconds they might haveleft?"

Skinner shook his head angrily, cursing himself for doingnothing. "Is this the way your patients usually go out?"

"Nothing about Mulder's case could be classified as usual,"Modell shook his head. "Especially the ruse with Ms. Scully."

Suddenly the hospital smell the all-too-familiar smell ofdeath sickened him. Skinner headed for the door.

"I know Mulder thought he was doing the right thing, butthere's gonna be hell to pay when she finds out the truth," Modellobserved.

"No," Skinner growled over his shoulder, "there's gonna behell to pay when I find out the truth." 

   [1]: mailto:minismith@aol.com
   [2]: http://members.aol.com/minismith/write/



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